Yesterday’s wind whipped the lid off the chicken coop can
scattering wisps of fresh straw willy nilly in its wake.
Just when you think Spring is almost in sight
another blast of artic weather
swirls merrily in your face,
such a taunting chill beauty.

Off the porch, the broom
lies askew in the garden:
but for the flowers on it,
it could have been
a discarded truncheon.
Sunlight through twigs
cast obscure sketches
on the walkway where
its handle points out
like a broken arrow to
the stone dog standing
by the leaf-strewn porch.
Leaves would not be
swept off soon while
the sun’s whiskers
slowly disappear.
Another storm gathers.
The night wind should
do the sweeping…